Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Writing Exorcise pt3

A streak of terror overtook him. Why was this happening to him. All he needed to do was wake up and all that weighed him down would be lifted. His wife would be quietly asleep at his side, the morning traffic would hum just outside his window. It was all just a sick joke and he could leave it all if he could just wake up - the memory of his dream dissolving with every waking moment, crumble with every physical task that would replace the volatile memory cells of his mind. Or was it his waking life that he despised even more? Was it all the unpaid debts, the unscrupulous people, the unpleasantness of not being able to do what he wanted? Was it the disparity of living as a cog in the cold machinery of society that made slumber an attractive escape? But what was once nights of creaking on an old fishing boat on a warm summer night, was now became jaw-locking screeches of deep dark guilt, regret, and at times malice.

Monday, November 27, 2006

Writing Exorcise pt2

The echo of car doors slamming and engines starting reassured the man that life in this mall parking structure continued even when no being was in sight. A slight flicker glossed over the rows of cars as he looked over and to the side of the autos to catch a glimpse of his own. He pressed the button on his car alarm fob to echo-locate the elusive vehicle and after the third try a chirp sounded down an unfamiliar end of the structure. With trepidation he turned and shuffled towards the direction of the sound that answered his every button press. He caught an orange flash in a corner that was seemingly shadowed in black grease masking any recognizable forms. Within a stones through of the the lights the man knew something was wrong - he knew that his car was not as it was when he left it. The car had been relocated and, even more perplexing, the car did not resemble the size and shape that distinguished it as an automobile. He looked around for someone to validate what he was witnessing or perhaps he scanned the area to see if someone was laughing at him. This was some kind of sick joke - it was the only thing it could be. At arms length and in the light of the flashing brake lights, the man could see that his car had been reduced down to parts that filled a box of some kind - perhaps it was a plastic container. The bok was no bigger than a filing cabinet or a crate, depending on one's occupational familiarity. But the real mystery weighed heavier with every press of the alarm fob - why and how was it that the lights still worked? Was this some kind of trap? No, this could only be some kind of sick joke.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Writing Exorcize

As he stepped out of the shower the towel wrapped man felt refreshed and invigorated by luxuries his downtown condo failed to deliver despite it's high cost. Here in the suburban home of his mother-in-law, the water jet from the shower head in superheated streams that messaged a warmth deep into his core - a far cry from the luke-warm water that dribbled from the shared pipes his high rise living. His morning wash oft left him uninspired to face an existence in an unforgiving city. But this weekend was different; this weekend was good.